Stranger
by DorisDonut
Summary: They didn't care she was her own self. They wanted to change her into what she wasn't. They tried to make her a stranger. Stardom is hard. Everyone expects the best from you. They expect you to be perfect. People come in all shapes and sizes and they're all beautiful. Even the one who wears glasses and trips over her own two feet. She was great just the way she was.


**Hi! I've been gone for such a long time so I decided to upload something. :)**

**It's based on how in so many stories and fanart, people change Jeanette to what she's not. They make her get contacts and change her wardrobe and habits and personality and everything until she's a complete stranger. As if the wonderful real Jeanette Miller wasn't enough.**

**I just uploaded this but I deleted it by mistake so, yeah oh well.**

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Her emerald green eyes, with eye shadow and eye liner surrounding them stared straight at her.

Her hair was completely straightened. At the ends there was slight curls. A huge amount of pins and accessories glimmered and shined in the reflection of the mirror, reflecting into her eyes causing her to blink from the bright light.

No more long, purple ribbon hanging from her hair. Her hair was held into a very tight, odd looking pony tail. At least that's what she thought.

A tight strapless dress, which was a dark almost black blue color dress fell slightly down to a bit above her mid thigh. Topping her look off she had black high heels she could barely move in, and her nails were a dark, dark purple color. Her face was caked in makeup. At least to her. To much stuff was on her cheeks. Too much red lipstick. Too much dark eye liner and mascara and too much purple eye shadow.

She felt completely defenseless and awkward. No big round pink glasses to defend her from the world, no messy but comforting hair to sit on her head. No baggy turtle neck and okay lengthened skirt, no baggy leg warmers or socks to go inside untied sneakers. She felt revealed and defenseless.

They were doing a concert. She and her sisters.

They looked great. Brittany was able to give herself her own duty with makeup but those who actually were working with the duty were specifically told to work on Jeanette, out of fear she wouldn't be able to handle giving herself a "beauty treatment".

Eleanor had some helpers with her but in the end she looked gorgeous. As did Brittany. As did everyone, as did every singer or actor or celebrity who could dress themselves properly, or who didn't mind looking absolutely glamorous. Or those who just wanted to look glamorous.

But not her. No, of course not. She looked different. Only her emerald colored eyes could make someone go, "Ohh, you're Jeanette Miller!"

Otherwise they'd think she was a very gorgeous stranger.

Never had so many people called her pretty. Those who were helping with the lights, tech, electricity. Those who chose the outfits. Those who scheduled everything. Those who did makeup and hair. Those in charge of taking care of the center of attentions' needs and wants. The whole crew. But why was this now? When she looked like an utter stranger?

She knew why she looked so drastically different. Because of everyone who looked into magazines and saw the title "The Chipettes" on any random page, especially if it was the first. Because they expected a beautiful, celebrity or singing or whatever natural trademark was to be a fashionista. To be absolutely beautiful. You can't be that when you have something baggy on or something wrinkled or messy on, apparently. You can't be that when you have a pair of older fashioned, large round glasses or any glasses at all on your face. You can't be that when your hair isn't perfectly in place or when you didn't put a bit of makeup on. You can't be that when you never wore beautiful high heels and walked in them gracefully. You can't be that being a quiet, clumsy book worm.

"Oh her, what's her name? Jeanette. Yeah, she looks kinda nerdy, I think she should wear contacts instead of glasses, haha."

"For your publicity and you girls having good publicity, you should work on.. Uh.. Her wardrobe."

"You're style is seriously lacking!"

"Why do you keep falling over like an idiot? Aren't you trained to dance and walk..?"

"She doesn't dress like a celebrity."

"She ruins everything, and honestly if she's a singer, dress like one."

"She should lose the glasses, I don't know."

Eleanor had a similar problem once. They told her to lose weight. She was too fat to be a star.

Too fat to be beautiful or to be able to do anything.

Too fat for any of that.

And she told them she didn't care. She wouldn't change for them. She lost some weight and stopped there because she didn't have to be stick thin for them. And you can't mold clay into smaller clay unless you rip off pieces, and she didn't let them do that. And she let them know that. And with her size she was fine with which was not fat, she glazed herself and put herself in a kiln and became her own kind of beautiful pottery. Her own self, because they couldn't change her.

But you can mold some clay into something different. So they tried changing the "four eyed" one. They tried changing Jeanette Miller.

So people freaked out about it. People trying to live in a world where they could ignore that Jeanette Miller was also her own person, to try to pick away the important parts and then shape her into a new thing.

Mascara was running now. It wasn't sweat. It was a tear. She glared at the girl in the mirror.

It was a stranger. It wasn't Jeanette Miller.

People were far more blinded than Jeanette Miller would be without her glasses, blinded enough to not know they were throwing her away. Did they care?

Jeanette sighed and sat down on the chair in front of the mirror, and rested her hand on the cold tabletop where a bunch of makeup stood until she pushed it off onto the floor.

And she wasn't going to let this happen. Because Jeanette Miller, whether they liked it or not, was staying. Because she was capable of accomplishing so many things by being herself.

And minutes later, in the dressing room sink, makeup and tears were washed down the drain and glasses rested upon a nose of someone who couldn't be changed or reshaped or picked apart or molded. No one could make that stranger stare back at her in the mirror.


End file.
